It’s the little things I love the most,

  the little things that make the good life good.

It’s brushing fingers with the boy-turned-man

I once begged God to turn my way,

and he smiles, twinkle-eyed,

and it’s still all for me,

  and still my heart stands still.

It’s miniature pajamas

hanging in an empty closet,

waiting,

  and I never thought we’d have someone to wear them.

It’s the delightful exasperation of

folding tiny mismatched socks

  I thought I’d only buy for friends.

It’s my chubby alarm clock waddling in,

well before the dawn,

lisping, “Mommy, can I snuggle you?”

In she climbs,

and she smells like strawberries

  and promise.

It’s a victory dance for that first-time triumph;

it’s a wacky dance

just 'cause we feel like dancing—

and the sillier we look,

and the faster we spin,

and the harder we laugh,

  the better it feels.

It’s a monkey squeeze from a blue-eyed boy

who still begs Mommy to carry him,

and I’ll do it till my arms fall off

(which they may)

  because I know it will end soon.

It’s the welcome sinking of the sun—just barely night—

and I’m so weary I can hardly cross

the toy-nado zone

to collapse and prop up my aching feet,

but as I close my eyes,

I groan a prayer of thanks,

and drink it in,

and promise never to forget,

never to squander

  these little things.

***